Gloriette just entering. He sat down at a cardtable, as near as possible to his fair one; while Mauricette, standing exactly opposite to him, tormented herself to think how she could manage to attract his attention without awakening that of Madame de Montclar, who was displaying all her graces; while he, in ecstasies at her condescension, had no eyes for any one else he did not even perceive the nods and signs of those he played with, much less the timid looks of Mauricette, now and then cast upon him. The Chevalier de Gloriette had won that evening the great sum of two thousand pistoles from a rich foreigner, who obstinately persisted in playing against him, which did not enter the Montclar calculations; but as the loser talked of coming again the next night, they did not oppose him, having so arranged that he should then only find the house friends to play with. The rich stranger had played against luck this time, but not against knavery; and some there thought it would be quite as well if they could get possession of some gold from the winner, for which purpose one of the chevalier's party had concealed a card in his lace ruffle, when a movement made by Mauricette, intended to attract the attention of Gloriette, so combined with the gamester's slight of hand, that he thought she had discovered it, and was endeavouring to inform the chevalier by signs. He took out his handkerchief, and pretending to make use of it, adroitly let the card fall under the table. The Baron de Montclar had seen the whole manœuvre and, as well as the player, thought Mauricette had discovered it; he gradually drew near to her, and said, "Take my arm, we will walk about a little; you seem indisposed again, my dear child!”

Mauricette would have declined, but the Baron was not to be foiled. "Once more," said he, "take my arm; you will faint." And the tone was such that she was obliged to yield.

As the Baron passed the skilful player, no one was seen to stoop, but when he left the chamber the card was no longer beneath the table! Instead of conducting Mauricette to the garden he led her into another room, the same where she had heard the horrid plan detailed which had so urged her spirit to action; he threw her rudely into a seat, and fastened the door; then placing himself before her, with his arms crossed, and contracted brows, he said, "I must allow, Mademoiselle, that you are a famous hand; and if not well watched, one might repent all the good one has done you.”

Mauricette, sinking with terror, looked at him with resignation; for she expected anything, everything but pity from that man.

"Ay, ay! act the victim, I advise you, after trying to betray us to the Chevalier Gloriette with your signals. Serpent! I ought to crush you under my foot! Will you dare to tell me you have not surprised a secret this evening, that you seek to repeat to those it concerns?" Mauricette held down her head, breathless with fear; and he continued, "Since you could see so well how we play here, perhaps you would

like to know what becomes of the cards when they disappear. By way of helping your initiation, I will show you; but in giving you my confidence, Miss Mauricette, remember you become an accomplice! And foul befall you if you betray us! Anybody may see in this house, but nobody speaks, except as I choose!”

As he ceased he seated himself opposite to her, and tapping his foot on the floor, detached from the sole of his shoe a card, which he picked up, and placing before her eyes demanded if she recognized it. Mauricette, sinking with terror, was near compromising herself by an imprudent answer, in saying he was mistaken in supposing she had seen anything of the card; but fortunately he did not give her time. 'Here," he said, "is the bird-lime we use for the birds we pluck. We have no other tricks, my beauty; but it is far better to be an associate with us than a denouncer. Remember that, I advise you, or you will be reminded to your cost!"

The villain little thought that every one of his words were honey-drops to his hearer, every menace a fresh security; he only suspected her of having discovered a gambling fraud; could he have even surmised the secret she had discovered he would not have stopped at making her tremble!

"I comprehend, sir," meekly replied Mauricette. "For the future you shall have no more fault to find with me."

"I am not accustomed to speak twice!" retorted the Baron. "Go up to your room, and never more attempt to interrupt the operations you see going on here, and to which you are indebted for the food you eat and the clothes you wear. You, whom we picked up by the roadside, starving and naked!"

She obeyed, and, as she left the room, heard him murmur to himself, "It's a good thing for you that you are so pretty!" Montclar listened till he heard her gain a chamber and close the door. Notwithstanding which, not a quarter-ofan-hour had elapsed when some one in the street rudely attacked a young girl who was leaving the door of the Hotel d'Anglade. The cowardly ruffian was, however, so roughly handled by a passer-by-who proved more than a matchthat he was glad to seek safety in flight.

Mauricette, for it was no other, raised her eyes to thank her deliverer, and beheld-Dominick Sauvegrain! "Is it you?" she joyfully exclaimed. How can I show my gratitude?”

"You are crazy, Madam," replied he coldly. You owe me no gratitude; I know you not!”

So saying, he left her, but the words, "I know you not," choked him to utter, and he went his way, the tears in his eyes, and indig nant with himself; for he felt that he loved her! It was indeed her husband!

(To be continued.)

And all who listen shall go hence
Beneath a haunting influence;
Breathing soft tales of bye-gone years,
Loves, friendships, sorrows, hopes, and fears,
When they were not as now, controlled,
By rigid rules and customs cold;
Deep is the lesson that is taught

By those sweet songs of saddest thought.

Their charm, indeed, can ne'er restore
The vanish'd fairy-land of yore;
Yet hearts, world-hardened, may retain
Some vestige of the speaking strain—
Feel, fondly feel, that "such things were"-
And walk through paths of toil and care
Kinder and better, since they sought
The solace of those songs of thought.

THE SONG OF A BELLE.

BY ROBERT H. BROWN, ESQ.

Oh yes! believe me, I would marry ;
I countenance each warm proposal ;
But then, beside my hand, dear Harry,
I've a fortune at disposal.

I listen to each proposition,

And consider well each proffer; But ah! though kind my disposition,

I find no eligible offer!

I patronise each route and ball,
And cards fall in from every quarter;
I answer to each morning call,

And join each party on the water ;
I'm seen wherever life and fashion
Mingle all their practic'd art;
And yet I feel no tender passion,

And mine is no obdurate heart.

I talk on great, or little matters,
The lazy morning to beguile;
I listen to each tale that flatters,
And answer with a winning smile;
I take bouquets in gay profusion,
And crippled sonnets by the score;
Then 'midst their eloquent confusion
My carriage rolls up to the door!

I'm courted by the proud and gay,

Who feel, or feign, a pure delight; I'm reigning beauty through the day. And the acknowledged belle by night; I'm leading partner in the dance,

And kind applause awaits my song; All marvel I abuse the chance

That I am disengaged so long!

'Tis true Sir Rowland press'd his suit;
"Tis true-I scarcely knew my mind-

I thought it better to be inute;
He sued again, and-I declin'd!
Mamma condemned my indiscretion;
She questioned how I dar'd refuse ;
I referred her, par confession,
To Captain Strangford of the Blues.

The season passed-we bade adieu
To scenes of gaiety and fashion;
Some spoke regret, and not a few
Of vanish'd hopes and blighted passion ;

I eulogised the various charms

A country seat would now possess ;
Although I had my secret qualms,
I thought it weakness to confess.

Oh, yes! believe me, I would marry;
I consider well each proffer;
But then I never yet, dear Harry,
Have had an eligible offer:
You must not call me hard to please,
It always hurts me to refuse;
But in my mind's perplexities
I find it difficult to choose!

Wakefield.

Our story commences on a bright winter's day in December, 1786. The leafless trees were covered with frozen snow, which glittered in the sunbeams with prismatic radiance. Folks may say what they will, but winter has its beauties; and we are never so thoroughly sensible of them as when we survey them from the windows of a well-warmed and comfortably furnished drawing-room. The hoary robe of frost, the mantle of white snow, and the diadem of icicles, seem from this point of view to have an indefinable charm: but beneath this charm, as beneath all that gives us pleasure in human life, lurks a shade of melancholy. Even while we are most conscious of, most grateful for, the blessings around us, even then does a shadowy consciousness of the miseries there are in the world thrill us with momentary terror.

It might be some such thoughts as these which occupied the mind of Emilie de Sémonville, as, with her balmy breath and her fingers, she altered the traceries old Winter with its frost, had designed on the windows. While she is thus employed, we will present her to our

readers.

Emilie was only sixteen, tall, graceful, and with a sort of native dignity. Her eyes were large, dark, and alternately brilliant and soft; her forehead was pure and white as marble; her rounded cheeks were tinted with health's warm hue; her luxuriant hair, dark as ebony. One moment she looked a child, pouting, peevish, mischievous, or giddy; the next she was proud, dignified, and reserved. And she was about to marry-to unite her sixteen summers to the fifty-eight winters of the Duc de Montferrand! It is always melancholy to see a crown of roses suspended from a cypress, at least to a thinking mind, to one that looks beyond the mere externals. Every one, however, considered that this was an excellent match for her. The Duc was a favourite at court; had immense estates, an enormous income, and a long, interminable line of noble ancestry; so far from pitying her, all single women envied Emilie. And she had accepted the alliance, flattered, perhaps, that it had been offered to her when so many courted it. She had never felt love: she knew nothing of the duties or obligations of the married state; and in contented, happy, childish ignorance, looked upon her marriage as an event which must occur some day; therefore why not now, when it offered itself, united with all the requisites she had been taught to expect, viz., rank, position, and wealth?

While Emilie yet stood at the window, indulging in idle reverie, her page Roget entered the

room, bringing a letter on a silver tray. "The person who brought it waits your orders," he said respectfully; and while his lady took the letter and perused it, the melancholy eyes of the youth rested on her with a gaze of mingled feelings. Emilie perused the epistle, which was from her destined bridegroom, answered it, and held out the reply; but Roget, absorbed in his contemplation, saw not the action until aroused by her voice; then blushing deeply, he took the note, and was going.

"When you have delivered that note to the person waiting for it, come back here! I want you," said Emilie; and she turned again to her idle occupation; but it was no longer birds, and trees, and flowers she sketched among the frostwork-for a moment the word Roget stood there, the next it was effaced; yet a few seconds afterwards the rebellious finger had again traced it, and once more it was pettishly effaced.

Roget was the only son of the steward of the late Duc de Sémonville; the old nobleman had taken a fancy to the boy, been his godfather, and charged himself with his education. Brought up at the Château, and only two years Emilie's senior, he had been her playfellow and companion during the years of childhood; but as they grew up they had been taught their relative positions in life, and the line of demarcation had been strongly drawn. Emilie had quickly learned her lesson of outward observance; but she could not forget the days which were gone, could not but see that Roget did not forget them either; his devotion to her every wish, now as then, gave her pleasure, though she said to herself," It is his duty to do so:" she felt his gaze ever following her, and often attired herself with care and taste, solely to enjoy his silent yet evident admiration; but she rarely ventured to meet those eloquent eyes which she knew observed her every movement, for there was something which pained and reproached even while it fascinated her in their expression, and made her feel angry and indignant at such pertinacity, although she would have been grieved had it ceased. Emilie was as yet a child in feeling, as impulsive, as insouciante, as full of naïveté; she was not conscious of the impulses which moved her, of the passions which as yet only gave tokens of their existence by some ebullition of self-will, caprice, pettishness, or melancholy; in her opinion she loved her lap-dog far better than she did Roget.

The page re-entered the salon; Emilie turned and held out her hand to him; it was pressed to his lips most respectfully, then passionately, for the youth's quick glance had caught the

Come,

46

Well, well, we will think of him no more. Will you go to the theatre this evening, love?" If you wish it, mamma."

"I am not the only person who wishes it. The Duc de Montferrand is counting the moments until he shall behold you. What a charming man he is! I met him this morning during my drive, and it was most grateful to my feelings to hear how he adores you, how anxious he is for the period which shall make you his bride; how he longs to show you all the arrangements he has made to please you.”

"And he is going?" observed Emilie, abstractedly.

"No, my love; he has just arrived, or I am inistaken. Ah, here he is!"

We have said that the Duc was a man who had numbered eight-and-fifty years; and notwithstanding all the pains bestowed on his toilet, he looked even older. The storms of the Regency had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and a life of dissipation had injured his health; notwithstanding this, however, he approached his young fiancée with a débonnair step, and gallantly raising the tips of her fingers to his lips, paid her some elegant compliments, with that graceful savoir faire which characterized the roués of the court of Louis XV. Then throwing himself negligently into a seat, he repeated some of the latest fashionable on dits, told one or two anecdotes "in confidence," and slid into the every-day topics.

"By-the-bye, Madame, I met your daughter's page as I came in; what a very fine young fellow he is! I should like him to enter my service when a Duchesse graces my château."

"I fear that cannot be, for only an hour or two since the youth asked permission to leave ine."

"Oh! some boyish whim-young people like change. Allow me to speak with him."

The page was summoned: Emilie was deeply interested in the leaves of an album; the Duc regarded the young man with a patronizing air, and said:

"I understand, Roget, that you wish to quit the service of Madame. I will take you into mine. Can you read and write?"

"I can do both, your Grace." "Well, then, you shall either be my valet de chambre or my courier. Which post do you prefer?"

"I cannot accept either the one or the other, your Grace."

How, and for what reason? if I may ask." "Because I have read that soldiers are wanted, and I have written to offer myself as

one."

The Duc crossed his legs, rocked one foot up and down, and gazed on the ceiling, as he observed:

"And what good will it do you to become a

But, your Grace, I may have courage to gain a regiment."

"Possible, but not by any means probable! His Majesty prefers being surrounded by scions of nobility too much to confide his troops to mere nobodies."

"And yet it is these nobodies who gain the battles for his Majesty, while the scions of nobility exhaust his treasury by their pensions," said Roget, with flashing eyes.

The Duc bit his lips, for he had received a pension as colonel of a regiment, which had signalized itself most bravely while he was laid up with an attack of the gout.

Really, young man, I would have you take care that your opinions do not conduct you to the Bastile. The world is becoming crazed since Rousseau and that scoundrel Voltaire began publishing their seditious opinions. I had taken rather a fancy to you, Roget; but you stand in your own light, I am sorry to say."

“I am grateful to your Grace for your good intentions, although I decline them; for something in my heart tells me that I can better prove to this family that their benefits have not been wasted by becoming a soldier than by remaining a servant. There is a change working in France, as you say; there is a flame spreading among the people; time will not quench it, but it will burn on stronger and fiercer until it may devastate the kingdom. Then, when the volcano blazes forth, it must be to the strong arm of a plebeian that the aristocrat must look for succour and safety, and woe to those who have bound no faithful heart to them !"

The youth had spoken as one inspired: Emilie's dark eyes were riveted on him with a fascinated gaze; the mother smiled approvingly on his enthusiasm, only the Duc remained immoveable; nonchalently balancing his foot, he said:

"I repeat, young man, that such opinions are too likely to conduct you to the Bastile." They may; but if so, it will be to set others free, not to become immured myself." He bowed, and retired.

There was an interval of silence, as if each were reflecting on the past. Emilie once more attentively studied her album; her eyes dwelt on one of the pictures of ancient chivalry, and fancy gave to the forms of the "ladye and her own true knight" a resemblance to herself and Roget: memory repeated how many a damsel had been loved by a "knight of low degree," who for her sake had performed marvels, and won rank and honour-and why should not Roget? Involuntarily she glanced towards the Duc; there was no resemblance between him and the cavalier she had dreamed of-old, feeble, by no means handsome. Emilie turned pale and shuddered: for the first time she felt that she did not love the Duc; that she could never look up to him as a guide and protector; that a union with him would make her more lonely than she was even now.